


in embers, in hailstones, in time

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Reign of Fire (2002), True Detective
Genre: Anal Sex, Apocalypse, Blood and Injury, Caretaking, Crossover, Drabble, First Meetings, First Time Bottoming, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Not Beta Read, Rescue, Top!Rust, bottom!Marty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 03:39:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10505637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: He dreamed of the epic force of mountain rain, the tender last shower during the dying of a storm– the ocean odysseys, the sweet silver streams, the liquid that had once cradled the planet and was now nothing more than evaporation in a red sky.(OR: a canon divergent Reign of Fire AU, set in '95, featuring a gratuitous amount of fluffy hurt/comfort... and bottom!Marty lmao)





	1. the earth is molten, time is stretching on a rack

In the beginning there was panic.

Then, once the reality of the world had sent Marty to his knees as he watched all his worldly possessions burn, he started to dream of water. He remembered the pure, uncorrupted gentleness of it, how he’d taken it for granted; the golden liquid flowing freely from his taps, cupped in his palms, swallowed greedily and with complacent ignorance that, soon, it would be gone. He dreamed of the epic force of mountain rain, the tender last shower during the dying of a storm– the ocean odysseys, the sweet silver streams, the liquid that had once cradled the planet and was now nothing more than evaporation in a red sky.

Marty found his identity leaving him, so quietly that he didn’t notice until he found himself huddled with a mass of people, hidden beneath debris as a fanged reptile shrieked demonic ferocities above them. He looked around at all the faces that surrounded him, and saw himself in their dirty faces, their lead-lined eyes, their hollow hearts and thin bodies.

They were all the same.

 

***

 

 _Everything_ was a desert now, and he wandered it aimlessly, seeking only to survive. The grass was blackened, the ruby sky was simmering, and all he wanted was to see moonlight one last time. The sun pressed fingers of flame against his skin, so hot it felt acidic, and he couldn’t feel the blisters anymore. He knew he had to keep walking. He knew he had to keep going. The endless march of humankind, weighing down on his shoulders, the voices of corpses crying, _water, water, water, water,_

Once, they’d watched movies about the end of the world. They’d laughed over popcorn and sat in rapt attention as actors railed against a dying world. The irony of it was hilarious to the point of hysteria.

Marty was sure that the planet was a giant ember floating in space, burned beyond any kind of repair, but still imagined that there was a haven untouched by this. A place of moisture, of softness, where he would find Maggie and his children again.

He imagined, but did not dare hope.

 

***

 

 _So this is how it ends,_ Marty supposed with dehydrated calmness, dragging the thought deep from the muddied recesses of his mind. He looked down at his stomach, at the wound that bled steadily. He’d fallen, a few paces back. Landed on an old shard of rusted metal. Gotten up. Kept going.

_Keep walking, keep walking. Water, water, water, water, water,_

He dragged his feet, the sun so hot that the blood seemed to sizzle and steam as it landed on the dirt. His knees buckled and he landed on his face, arms splaying. The world swirled, all reds and dull browns, and he watched it move through one eye, half his face against the ground. Grains between his teeth. He had no gun, no water, nothing, and it occurred to him again that this might be the end. He laughed, and felt his wound squelch, hot blood gushing from him. His lips were dry and splitting, skin pulled tight over his cheeks, eyes rolling back in their sockets as he gave in to unconsciousness. His vision whited out. A mind bleached dry by fire.

 

***

 

Marty felt himself being carried, which was strange. He hadn’t expected that. Harsh lands breed harsh people; he’d expected his body to be searched and kicked, but not held, lifted, embraced by strong arms, the faint scent of a cigar making him remember his father. He smiled in his sleep, more serene than he’d been since passing five years old.

 _He’s still kickin’,_ said a fond voice, so deep and kind that Marty could submerge himself in it, _reckon this one might be a fighter._

He let himself hang limply. It was all he was capable of.

 

***

 

When Marty woke up he remembered hands on his face, a cup against his lips. He remembered the gentle caress of fingers in his hair, the tenderness of someone much stronger than their touch suggested. He remembered tilting his head towards them, seeking them out, and the quiet chuckle that had answered him.

Marty realised he’d been rescued. Given water.

He opened his eyes to see his saviour.

The room he was in was dark, shadowed by tarpaulin blinds that had been drawn over small windows. A man stood by one of them, his stillness surreal like that of a statue, a gun held easily in his large hands. He looked like a barbarian, a warrior, something from old mythology with his shaved head, tattoos, curled moustache, and bared brown skin. What was left of his knuckles was mottled with white scars, but his blue eyes shone like the sky had once, and Marty had never seen a person so dangerously majestic.

“Where am I?” Marty croaked, his voice grating against the inside of his throat.

The man looked over at him. His eyes softened.

“Inside an M-60 tank. Safe.” He responded gently, reaching into a pocket of his hard ballistic US military vest, producing a water bottle and hanging it over. Marty grabbed the bottle, hands unsteady as thirst shook him in tremors. He had to try twice to get the cap off, and then he was tipping his head back, convinced he had found the meaning of heaven as water poured down his throat. The world seemed to brighten. Sharpen. The man watched him, unmoving, and Marty realised he should’ve been afraid.

“Why,” he sucked in a breath, relished the way air moved into his lungs without scraping on its way down, “Why’d you rescue me?”

The man inclined his chin minutely upwards. His eyes moved away, back to the window, and Marty realised he was watching a crack in the makeshift blinds. Waiting for something to approach, on watch. It made him feel safe to know this man was on guard.

“Know a survivor when I see one. Y’should be dead, but you ain’t. That means somethin’.”

Marty looked down at his stomach. It was only then he realised he wasn’t wearing his dirty, sweat-soaked shirt, or his torn pants. He was dressed in fresh, crisp slacks, his chest patched up with bandages. Marty was so confused by the cleanliness of what he saw that he tentatively touched the fabric, curious and amazed. It’d been so long since he’d felt like a human being.

“Did you see me naked?”

“Good t’know you’re a grateful motherfucker.”

Marty looked up at the stranger, anxiety making his stomach roll. “I didn’t mean-”

“I know.”

“Thank you.”

The man nodded. Marty’s eyes were drawn to a white scar that stretched across his throat, puckering the skin over his jugular.

“My name’s Marty. What’s yours?”

The man shifted minutely, eyes flickering away again. He adjusted his grip on the gun, and Marty sensed the lie before it was spoken. Good to know being a cop hadn’t entierly failed him.

“Denton van Zan.”

Marty snorted out a laugh. “Bullshit. What’s your real name?”

The man turned back to him. His face was indecipherable, and for a moment Marty had no idea what would happen next.

“...Rustin Cohle.”

Marty looked him up and down. Saw the red sand on his clothes, the scars and the burns, the thousands of secrets contained behind those brilliant eyes, the power that ran thick through his dusty veins. A wild man. A soldier of the apocalypse. He looked ancient.

“Rust.” He murmured in reply. Tasting the word, feeling it against his tongue. It fit.

"Did y'just give me a nickname, Marty?”

“Yeah, Rust. S’pose I did.”

After a confused beat, the man smiled, a surprising shyness to his expression. Marty grinned back, wondering who they’d have been if the world hadn’t ended.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fic title taken from Gareth Liddiard's song You Sure Ain't Mine Now  
> chapter title taken from Highplains Mailman, also by Gareth


	2. the tracks of some giant, the smoke of some fire

Marty didn’t even know he had fallen asleep until Rust was gently shaking him awake.

He woke up, but he didn’t move. He realised that he could smell smoke. Survival instincts kicked in, the war between fight or flight overtaking his every sense. He felt an insidious, creeping fear gripping his body, building to a crescendo, filling his mind with white-hot terror and memories of a shadow engulfing the world before burning started. He was frozen rigid. Too scared to breathe when he felt fingers grip his shoulder. His lungs burned, and he was hot and cold at the same time– the feeling prickled at his brain, humming beneath his skull. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. He wanted to curl in on himself and pray for survival.

But, eventually, the meaningless sounds above him formed into words, and the low drawling hum started to translate in Marty’s mind.

“…not gonna hurt you. Marty? Open your goddamn eyes,” Rust murmured calmly, a tired understanding in his tone that said he knew all too well what it was like to be afraid, “it’s a’right. You’re safe.”

Marty recognised that slowly meandering accent, those long vowels, and remembered where he was. He sucked in a sharp breath, feeling himself trembling, hands unconsciously braced over the wound on his stomach.

“That’s it, that’s it. C’mon now, open your eyes. C’mon, Marty.”

Marty did. Somehow, he didn’t feel that he could deny Rust anything– not when that composed, serenely powerful voice was offering him answers that he could no longer find within himself. He looked up into Rust’s eyes, and forced breaths down into his lungs. The nightmare started to fade. He looked into the wild blue of Rust's irises. Immersed himself in it. Let Rust hypnotise him, tried to calm down. Rust held him steady, held him close. Like he knew that Marty needed him to stay still, needed time to emerge from the horrors that were so deeply embedded in his mind. Marty shifted on the bed, letting his knees slide down, his legs relax. His thighs trembled from how rigid he'd been while dreaming.

"That's it." Rust said quietly, leaning over the bed. "You good?"

Marty nodded. Rust let him go.

“Thought you were gonna punch me.” Rust leaned back from the bed, straightening up and pulling a tightly rolled cigarette out of his mouth.

Marty sighed shakily, tried to pass the unsteady exhale off as an expression of annoyance. “Smelt the smoke of your goddamn cigarette, thought one of them fuckin’ reptiles was ‘boutta kill me.”

Rust regarded his cigarette thoughtfully. “You did, huh. Sure hope you ain’t tellin’ your _rescuer_ to stop smokin’. Don’t say much ‘bout how grateful you are that I didn’t leave you to bleed out.”

“Jesus, you’re a prick.”

Rust didn’t smile, but the edges of his eyes softened. He put his cigarette back into his mouth, sucked on it deep, cheeks hollowing. “Sure am, cowboy.”

Marty snorted and tried to sit up. He felt a sharp pang stab of pain behind the bandages that were holding him together, and he pressed a palm against his stomach, a whined gasp escaping from his mouth before he could stop it. He fell back into the bed, breathing hard.

“…Ah, shit.” Rust sounded awkwardly embarrassed, words distorted as he spoke around the cigarette between his lips. “Should’ve... said somethin’, I s’pose. Warned you not to move.”

“Yeah,” Marty gasped, “you fuckin’ should have.”

Rust hovered there for a moment. Marty glared at him, and it was only then he realised that Rust had ditched the bulletproof vest and was wearing a white singlet, stained dark by dirt and sweat. It clung to him in all the right ways, his brown arms lean and muscular by his sides, and Marty looked away. Pretended it was the pain of his wound that had him flustered.

“There’s breakfast, out with the crew. S’why I woke you up.” Rust took his cigarette between two fingers again, lowered it beside his thigh as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. “But if you ain’t up to walkin’, I can bring you some.”

Marty heard the apology in his voice, and smiled. “Breakfast in bed, huh?”

Rust raised an eyebrow, somehow managing to communicate more sarcasm in a facial expression than most people could by speaking. “Don’t get used to it, you asshole. Expect you to earn your damn keep, soon as you can get up off your ass.”

“What, are you the fuckin' sherrif ‘round here or somethin’?”

“Somethin’ like that, yeah.” Rust turned to leave, shrugging noncommittally. “Wouldn’t say there’s a particular hierarchy to a group of wanderin’ nomads, but someone’s gotta take charge, or it’ll all go to shit. More than it already has.”

Marty made the mistake of glancing at Rust as he walked away– and at the tight, round curve of his ass, the green army fabric pulled taut beneath the battered leather of an old belt. He blushed, but continued looking. It was the end of the world, after all, and being attracted to a man was the least of his fucking worries. Rust moved slow. He moved like he was ready for anything, like he could take on the whole world with a dirty knife and _win_. The dim light that streamed down from the hatch at the top of the tank slipped over his shaved head, making his scars glint. Marty found himself wondering about the other scars hidden beneath those dirty clothes, about what that brown skin would taste like, what it would be like to be held down and touched by such a powerful man. Fuck, he’d been alone so long, wandering the scorched earth without purpose or hope, that the sensation of Rust’s hands on his shoulders lingered like a kiss. His imagination tasted like salt and flesh, and his lips parted in an unconscious expression of _need_.

Rust turned back to him. Marty’s eyes flickered up to his face a moment too late.

“Gettin’ a good eyeful, huh?”

Marty’s blush grew hotter. He opened his mouth to retort, but closed it again, for once utterly clueless as to how he could argue his case. Rust chuckled and pulled at a metal lever on the door, opening it.

He left without another word.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Gareth Liddiard's song Strange Tourist
> 
> tell me what you guys think about this AU so far!!!! I'm really curious~~~ :D


End file.
